


The Grief of Healing

by Kaiserkorresponds



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Chronic Pain, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker Friendship, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has Chronic Pain, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Needs a Hug, Physical Therapy, Post-Worm Attack | Jane Prentiss Invades the Magnus Institute, The Magnus Archives Season 2, Tim Stoker Needs a Hug (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:20:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29931264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiserkorresponds/pseuds/Kaiserkorresponds
Summary: "You didn't just slip on some ice, did you?"Jon exhaled heavily, his posture deflating."Yes, I did." He mumbled.Tim paused. "Was it the black kind? Or like a skating pond?"Jon's eyes flashed. "No, Tim. It was ice. Mundane sidewalk ice."He drew in a shuddering breath, his voice scarcely audible. "That's all it takes these days."--After the worm attack, Jon is struggling with chronic pain and his new lack of mobility. He and Tim talk about recovering and adapting to new limits.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 109





	The Grief of Healing

"Jon, what the fuck?" 

Tim felt his jaw drop open at the sight of Jon. Namely, the spread of discolored, swollen bruises encircling his ribcage. 

"Yes, Tim?" Jon huffed, rocking back onto the flats of his feet; his sweater falling back over the planes of his waist and obscuring the massive injuries. 

"Your–" Tim broke off, gesturing to the freshly hidden skin. "What the hell happened?" 

Jon shifted minutely, the edges of his lips twitching. "Nothing happened." 

"Then what do you call all of that?" 

"I merely slipped." Jon muttered. "There– there was a patch of ice."

"There's no way that's from just a bit of ice, Jon." 

Tim leaned forward in the breakroom's rickety chair. "How'd you even manage to get all of that bruised?" 

Jon shifted, his tiny frame swaying from one side to the other in a stiff motion. "Like I said, I slipped." 

Tim gawked. "Yeah, no. That's. What really happened?"

"If you're going to interrogate me, I'm afraid I have to get back to work." Jon's jaw clenched as he practically spat out the words; his entire body twisting abruptly as he marched toward the door. 

"Wait, Jon, buddy." Tim rose from his own seat, hastily grasping Jon's shoulder. "I just, I want to make sure you're alright." 

Jon's eyes flicked down to their conjoined limbs; his mouth twitching again in a shaky little snarl and his chest puffed out as if he was about to shove Tim's hand off. 

"I only want to know that you're not about to bleed out or anything, Jon. No interrogations." Tim repeated. "Scout's honor." 

Jon glanced back up. "You were never a scout." 

Tim grinned, a hint of relief trickling through his chest. "And you didn't just slip on some ice, did you?" 

Jon exhaled heavily, his posture deflating. 

"Yes. I did." He mumbled. 

Tim paused. "Was it the black kind? Or like a skating pond?" 

Jon's eyes flashed. "No, Tim. It was ice. Mundane sidewalk ice." 

He drew in a shuddering breath, his voice scarcely audible. "That's all it takes these days." 

Tim leaned back against his heels, a wave of comprehension crashing over him. 

"How about we grab a seat, alright?" 

Jon nodded, the motion slow and stiff, but still undeniably an acquiescence, and Tim nodded in return. 

Carefully, he grasped under Jon's shoulder blade– tactfully ignoring the way that Jon's meager weight fell into his side as he did so– and guided him from the doorway and back to the breakroom's tiny excuse for a table. 

"There, that's it." He said softly as he deposited Jon into one of the rickety plastic chairs that littered the sticky floor, swiping another chair closer and plopping himself down into it as he did so. 

"Want to tell me about what happened?" 

Jon glanced up, his fingers stilling from the anxious, fidgety motions they had twisted into. 

"There's." He muttered. "There's not exactly much to tell. The steps from my apartment weren't fully cleared, and I was in a bit of a rush. It wasn't quite light outside yet, either. And I slipped. That's– that's it." 

Tim nodded. "It was fairly chilly last night." 

Jon's expression tightened, his jaw clenching shut and his eyes creasing around the edges. "Yes, well. A bit of a chill is all it takes to put me out of commission." 

A bitter laugh, one that sent a sharp spike of concern through Tim's chest, followed up the statement. 

"Jon." He said softly. "You know that happens, it doesn't mean anything." 

Jon's teeth ground together near audibly. "It didn't used to happen." 

Tim shoved down the impulse to make a joke about the inevitability of aging; the knowledge as stiff as cement in his throat that this wasn't the average concern with getting older. 

"I thought–" Jon's voice broke through the heavy silence. "I thought that physical therapy was supposed to fix it. It's– it was a fairly foolish assumption in retrospect." 

"It wasn't." Tim said, swallowing back against the concrete choking his throat. The same concrete he knew was strangling Jon's words. "I, well, I'd thought the same." 

The admittance drew Jon's gaze up, the sharp pain in his dark eyes boring into Tim. 

"It's kinda what they tell you, isn't it?" He continued. "That'll all get better, right? Restrengthen and rehabilitation and all that. They don't really mention the whole, it'll never be the same thing again, do they?" 

Jon's throat bobbed. "No, no, they don't." 

Tim shook out his shoulders, ignoring the twinge from the left one and the stiff pull of scar tissue. "It's a bit of a false positive if you ask me. But, it's– it's not the end of the world." 

"Yes, right." Jon's voice was a near whisper, and in Tim's peripheral vision, his eyes were glossy. "I didn't– I shouldn't have expected." 

"You still gotta give it some time too though, you know?" Tim continued. "It takes a second to be damaged. Takes years to heal." 

Jon nodded shakily. "Yes. Well, yes." 

Tim nodded in return. "In the meantime, how about we raid the paracetamol? I can't say that all that shoveling last night did any favors for my shoulder either." 

Jon glanced up, "Oh, Tim. I– I forgot." 

"Nah, it's fine." Tim grinned, shaking his head slightly. "I'm all good, just a little sore. Unlike you, Mr. Broken Ribs." 

"They aren't broken." Jon huffed indignantly. "Just– maybe a bit bruised." 

Tim snorted, stretching as he rose up from the chair's stiff backing to the cabinet. "Yeah, sure, boss. You're halfway to being a bottle of grape soda." 

Jon made a disgruntled sound, but didn't argue further. 

Tim pawed through the cabinet's assortment of supplies– mainly decades old plasters and tattered boxes of tea– before finally coming up with a plastic bottle of painkillers. Rattling the bottle, he dumped out a dose into his own palm and tossed them back to dry swallow.

"Two or three?" 

"Three." Jon muttered. 

Tim made no comment on the extra pill; instead, he dropped the tiny capsules into Jon's fingers with a flourish and ducked back to his own desk. Pretending that the exit was solely due to the burning, embarrassed flush across Jon's cheeks and nothing to do with the sharp twinge of grief in his own chest from the conversation.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little look into what some mutal healing could have been like for Jon and Tim after the worms !! With some major chronic illness/chronic pain emotions bc severe injuries like that aren't solved in a day !! 
> 
> If you enjoyed plz feel free to leave a comment or kudos !! <3


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